


Father & Son

by smidget25



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Movie Spoilers, Young Legolas, father-son problems
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 06:47:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2841860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smidget25/pseuds/smidget25
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s stood at Raven Hill, amongst the bodies of his fallen people, his precious son staring at him in disdain, and wonders how he could have got it so wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Father & Son

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been having some serious father/son feels after BOTFA. I felt a bit sorry for poor Thranduil – he’s had a rough time of it and everyone seems to want to blame him for everything! 
> 
> Brief SPOILERS for BOTFA contained in this fic…
> 
> Translations:   
> Ionneg – My son   
> Ada – Daddy

The elfling is a curious little creature. 

It is smaller than he’d expected, so tiny, vulnerable, with clenching little fingers and a reddened, scrunched face. Already there’s a smattering of soft fair hair upon its head and his ears are dainty and pointed. 

He blinks up at Thranduil with his own ice blue eyes, and reaches for him with his miniature fists, spitting and burbling soft sounds Thranduil does not understand. 

He picks him up anyway, without thinking, and the babe coos in what can only be satisfaction, entwining fingers in the golden waterfall of his hair and attaching it’s gaping mouth onto the buttons of his embroidered robe. It’s drooling spit all the way down Thranduil’s front, and he should be recoiling in disgust, but he feels only fascination. The little arms are flailing excitedly, tugging at his hair, and he can’t help but smile at its antics, something warm curling in his chest. 

He had made this – this beautiful little creature. It’s difficult to believe that something so precious had come from him. 

There’s a lot he’s proud of - his skill in battle, his cunning, his victories in the Last Alliance of Men and Elves – but he knows he is not a benevolent King. He does not have the wisdom of Elrond, or the sheer magical force of Galadriel; he does not posses their patience or their kindness. But he likes to believe he is a strong King, sometimes even a good one.

A good father however, is something he had never envisioned. 

“Hello, Ionneg,” he mutters, and surprises himself by the gentleness of his voice. He strokes a long finger over the elfling’s rounded cheek, revelling in its softness. The child is so small, so delicate, he feels anxious about holding it to his breast; afraid he will crush it in his grasp. 

“Nana had to go away for a while,” he explains, and his voice hitches. He blinks rapidly, finding his strength again, before he continues. He’s not going to cry; he doesn’t think tears are enough for what he’s feeling. “It’s just going to be you and me.” 

The elfling flails its hands some more, tangling the long strands of his hair, and bringing them to its mouth. Thranduil watches with abject dismay as it munches on the golden hair with enthusiasm, blinking its large eyes up at him in deceptive innocence. 

“That’s ok though,” Thranduil continues, brushing his lips over the fuzziness of the elfling’s head. He presses almost frantic kisses into its hair. The babe wriggles in his grasp, releasing his golden locks from its mouth and making a grab for the pointed thorns of his crown. “You don’t need to worry about a thing. Ada will look after you, I promise.”

The babe gurgles back at him. 

“You have to promise to be good for me,” Thranduil commands, with a proud smile. “My little Legolas.” 

+++

He’s stood at Raven Hill, amongst the bodies of his fallen people, his precious son staring at him in disdain, and wonders how he could have got it so wrong.

The little elfling he had treasured, held to his breast and sang softly to sleep, is gone, replaced by a noble Princeling and a deadly warrior. He’s still golden haired, but it’s long now – plaited down his back like Thranduil’s. 

Thranduil realises that’s where their similarities end. 

Legolas had always been brave and selfless – willing to throw himself into a fight for what he believed in. It’s a trait that reminds Thranduil of his own father; a great King but a poor parent, who had ran foolishly into battle, and had paid the ultimate price. He had been determined that he would never do the same. That he would never rush needlessly into danger, and yet here he is – stood in a battlefield he had helped create, the blood of his own people staining his feet. 

He hears Legolas’s icy words as though from far away; his own son wants nothing more to do with him. He wants to travel north and leave their home behind. He no longer looks upon his father with reverence, as he had as a child, clutching at his robes and crying, “Ada! Ada!” 

His gaze is cold and disheartened, and Thranduil does not know how to fix it. It cuts deep, deeper than any cut he’s received in battle, and he wonders if Legolas can see the wounds upon his face. 

He sends him north, with something akin to blessing, and wonders if he will ever come back.

**Author's Note:**

> This feels a little unfulfilled. I wanted to keep true to the ending in BOTFA, but it's sadder than I intended. Maybe I can reunite them after Legolas's adventures with Aragon!


End file.
